The sky above the cathedral was not truly sky—it was a dome of dying stars, each flickering like the final heartbeat of some long-dead god. There was no wind, no sun, no pulse of nature—only the void pressing in from all sides, as if the world itself was holding its breath. And at the center of this hushed cosmos stood the cathedral: blackened, ancient, and crowned with thorns. It pulsed with something that felt older than time, and it called to them like a dirge.
Selena and Dante stood at the edge of what should have been a bridge, but was instead a series of ribcage-like bones—massive, curved, and strung together by sinew that shimmered in the starlight. Below it, instead of water, churned a moat of silver. Not liquid, not quite light—memories. Selena stared down and saw flashes in the surface: moments stolen from the world. A girl crying. A man burning. Lovers torn apart by unseen hands. She tore her gaze away.
